


some things I mean

by samalander



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Wrong Number, Archery, Background Yelena Belova/Kate Bishop, Ballet, Charity Hawktion (Marvel) 2019, Cunnilingus, Dead Parents, Desk Sex, Divorce, Drinking, Drunk Texting, F/M, Feelings, Hand & Finger Kink, Implied/Referenced Murder, Injury, Isolation, Kindness, Past Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: Wrong Number AU: In which an Olympic Archer gets drunk and tries to text his ex, but ends up talking to a young ballerina who desperately needs a friend.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 33
Kudos: 228
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2019





	some things I mean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> _And all my friends are way too drunk to save me from my phone_  
>  _So sorry if I say some things I mean_ \- fuck, i’m lonely by Lauv & Anne-Marie
> 
> For Kali, who asked for a wrong number AU. I apologize that it took so long to get to you, but I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> With special thanks to Snows, who was kind enough to read this as it came together and help me form it.

Natasha is not the kind of person who leaves alerts on her phone. She's frankly allergic to them; the little bubble with a 1 makes her itch, and she has to clear it as soon as possible.

So when she wakes up one Saturday and the little bubble on her text messages has a 16 in it, her first assumption is that someone is dead. That doesn't track, though, she got a new number when she moved to New York and not a lot of people have it. And there's no one left whose death she would be notified about. Anymore.

But there it is, a little bubble demanding her attention. She taps on it.

_**347-429-5393**  
hey bob  
bobbi  
Hey  
I' drunk and also sorry  
Autocorrect makes struck typing so much nite legible  
U ok ?  
Alseep?  
Bobbi in sorry  
Everubtihin is my fault  
I need you to know i kieee you  
Please dont sleep with hunter i haye that guy  
Its non of my busines but anyone byt him  
Sorry  
I'll stop joe  
I miss you  
Im sorry_

Natasha sighs out loud. Cool. She was counting on New York being a clean slate, on it being a place to start over, but she's now exactly where she doesn't want to be. In the middle of someone else's drama. 

The correct answer is probably to just delete the messages, block the number, and move on. But she hesitates with her thumb over the app. It doesn't seem fair. For all she knows this is some poor jilted lover begging a cheater to come back. They at least deserve to know that they got the wrong person.

 _Sorry, wrong number._ she types. _Good luck, though._

And that, she figures, will be the end of that. Natasha stretches and her neck pops as she rolls out of bed to go get ready for class.

* * *

Natasha's day is a blur of _plié_ and _jeté_ and _glissade_ , her moments of perfection interrupted by the herd of other women in their identical outfits. Their faces all blur into one another, and their names are a flat-out mystery, but Natasha knows that the small blonde girl has a natural turnout, and the tall brunette will probably wash out by the end of the year. Her fellow students aren't people so much as targets; things she will have to move through if she's going to earn her way into the corps. She can learn their weaknesses and use them to strengthen herself.

By the time classes are done and Nat is standing on the platform waiting for her train, she's all but forgotten about her mystery texter. School has only been in session for a few weeks, but she's already feeling like she has to work harder than she did back home and she's still not good enough.

It doesn't help that she hasn't made any friends. Not that she really expected to; she hadn't had many back in Ohio, either. But she had her parents, and she hadn't felt quite so lonely.

She checks her phone more by habit than expectation. It's not like Mama will have left her a voicemail to say she misses her Nata. Dead people don't tend to do that.

So the two notifications are a little unexpected. That they're from the same wrong number as this morning is somehow not.

_**347-429-5393** _  
_I'm sorry, I didn't mean to vomit my feelings on a stranger._  
_Very uncool._

Natasha has to laugh. She has to, because who the hell is this person? What do they want from her?

 _It's okay_ , she types back, while the train pulls up. _Hope you're not hurting too bad._

And **that** should be the end of it, she thinks, as she climbs onto the train. But she thought that this morning, so who knows.

* * *

Natasha makes it home before the mystery person texts her again. The message she gets back is simple, and she reads it as she walks up the three flights of stairs to her apartment and unlocks the door.

_I'm paying dearly for my sins, but can I ask who you are?_

It's an interesting thing, Natasha thinks as she locks the door behind her, to have a person want to know who she is after they've poured their heart out to her. Part of her hesitates. This could be anyone. This could be a trick, or someone who will leave her in a bathtub of ice after stealing her organs. 

Or it could be a lonely person who texted the wrong number while trying to tell their ex that they missed them.

Her roommate, Steve, is conveniently missing, his shoes not by the door being her major tipoff. She doesn't mind. He's nice enough, but what really matters is that he pays his rent on time and doesn't go through her stuff. She wonders what Steve would say, if she told him about the messages. If he would warn her away from this guy. But she doesn't even know how she'd broach the conversation about a person she barely knows with a person she barely knows.

 _You're a little forward._ she types as she heads into her room to change, but she reconsiders it. If it was her, if she was hurting like this person seems to be, she wouldn't want that. She erases the words and sends him _Call me Nat. You?_ instead.

She barely has time to wonder if she should be talking to this rando before the next message arrives.

_I'm Clint. Nice to meet you, kinda._

It doesn't require a response, she thinks. She could just take a shower and make dinner and go about her life and not think about this guy anymore. She could let it go.

But she doesn't want to.

 _Sure. Take care of yourself, Clint. Avoid drunk texting._

She hopes it comes across as comedy, as her ribbing him gently about how they met, but she's not totally sure it does. He seems to be taking time to decide himself; she's changed into her comfy leggings and a loose shirt and is halfway through her evening stare at the vast emptiness of the fridge when her phone buzzes again.

_Good advice for all of us. You live in the city?_

This pulls her up short. She has a New York area code, which he knows because he's been texting it. Surely he must have realized that she's not going to give him her address or anything, not when what she knows about him is his name and his propensity to be a sad drunk.

 _Probably._ she types, her stomach doing a little flip as she thinks about what her Papa would say, how he would warn her about all the ways she could be harmed by a stalker. She adds a curt _Why?_ before sending it.

Natasha selects a bag of unremarkable lettuce that seems to be a few minutes shy of turning into absolute rot from the bottom of the fridge, and starts making something to eat. Mama used to tease her about the way she ate, say that she would be a little bird her whole life if she didn't get a bigger appetite, but it is what it is, and she has to maintain a certain way of looking if she wants to keep dancing.

She doesn't look at her phone when it buzzes, finishes preparing her dinner and carries the plate into what passes for the living room in her crackerbox of an apartment before she checks her texts.

 _I feel like maybe I owe you a beer for all the trouble you've been through._ he's said, and Natasha needs to slow this down. It's going too fast for her, whatever it is.

She takes a contemplative bite, trying to figure out how to shut this door without making him stop talking to her. It's weird, she thinks; she's not really had anything close to a friendly chat since she got to New York, and it's almost soothing to be having one now, despite how odd this whole situation is.

Finally, she decides to stop thinking and grabs her phone instead.

_Yeah, I don't meet strange men who drunk text me thinking I'm their ex or whatever._

His response is fast, two short messages in quick succession.

_Probably a good policy._  
_Sorry._

Natasha sighs and puts down the phone. She isn't going to go through this, not tonight. It's big and it's scary and she isn't ready to apologize to this stranger for taking common-sense precautions.

She turns back to her dinner. If he wants to talk more, he knows how to find her.

* * *

Natasha loves dancing. It's one of the only times she feels centered and whole; it doesn't matter that shes alone or that there are dirty dishes in the sink or that she's going to run out of money sooner or later. When she moves, when she lifts her arm and turns her hip and lets herself be the flow of the dance, there is nothing else in the world. Just her, and music, and an ocean of time. It's the closest she'll ever feel to perfect.

Three days after her first text from Clint, she's doing warmups before class. Just like every other day, she holds the barre and goes up into a rise. The pain radiates through her right foot immediately, like hot water is coursing through her veins.

Something is wrong. Natasha has been dancing for most of her life, long enough to know her body and her feet and it's never hurt like this before. There's been pain, there's been trouble. Her foot has been feeling tender recently. But not like this. Never like this. She stops, dropping her turnout and holding on to the barre as she waits for the wave of pain to leave her. Nat takes a few deep, soothing breaths, trying to channel the feeling, but it doesn't help, even putting weight on the foot makes her feel like there's fire sparking through it.

"Are you okay?"

Nat turns to look at the voice and grimaces in pain again as she puts weight on her right foot. _Stupid_ , she thinks at herself. _You're in front of a mirror. Use that to look._

"No," she tells the girl behind her, a blonde who is also in her class. Elaina, she thinks. Or something like that. "I think I need the nurse."

Maybe-Elaina nods. "Okay," she says. "Do you want help getting there?"

What a terrible thing to be asked. Does she want help from this woman she barely knows? Or should she try and walk on a foot that is protesting being stood on?

She swallows her pride as best she can. "I think I need help," she says, not meeting her classmate's eyes. "Please."

* * *

Elaina helps her, letting Nat lean on her shoulder as they make their way to the nurse, but she doesn't stay for the exam, or for the order of rest and xrays and the words that Natasha was afraid of the moment she felt the pain. 

_stress fracture_

She won't be dancing for 6 weeks, not until the big toe on her treacherous right foot decides that it can hold her up again. She'll need physical therapy and a walking boot and she's momentarily relieved that the school requires them to buy into the health insurance plan because without it she has no idea how she could ever fit an injury into her budget. Even with the insurance, she's going to be going lean in the next few weeks; there will be a lot of beans and rice in her future.

It's not until around 3 pm, when she's on the train heading home -- hours early, miserable and in pain, that she wonders who she can get to tell her it's going to be okay.

She makes the only decision that feels even remotely sane. She takes out her phone, and she texts Drunk Clint. He can deal with _her_ misery this time.

 _I broke my toe_ , she types, considering each word. _I can't dance for a month and a half. It's your turn, make me feel better about it._

She waits thirty seconds, hoping that she'll get a read receipt, but then decides she's being ridiculous and shoves her phone back in her bag. It doesn't matter. He probably won't even text her back.

* * *

Steve is actually home for once when Natasha gets there, her air boot clunking down the hall to announce her presence.

"What happened?" he asks as she limps into the apartment. He's clearly horrified. It's like he's never seen a dance injury before.

Natasha sighs, dropping her bag. "My foot hurts," she says, opening the freezer and pulling out the emergency sleeve of Oreos she keeps there.

Steve's brow is so furrowed he looks like he might actually care. "Is it bad?"

"Stress fracture," she says, shoving a cookie in her mouth. 

"Shit," he says, shaking his head. "I gave myself carpal tunnel, in college. I couldn't hold a pen to draw for like a month."

There are about 300 biting remarks that Natasha wants to make, most of them along the lines of "oh, you poor baby", but she swallows them with the cookie and looks at Steve-- actually looks at him-- for a long moment.

He's tall, she thinks, and not bad looking. She knows he does something with galleries or art-- the sheer number of sketchbooks scattered throughout their apartment makes her think that he draws, but she's never really stopped to think about the fact that they could have anything in common.

"That must have sucked," she says, hoping it's at least sincere.

"It did," he says, nodding sadly. "Why don't you sit down, take a load off? Standing can't feel good."

Natasha smiles at him despite herself. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

She doesn't have to go far to find their little sofa, and Steve disappears for a moment, returning with some throw pillows from his room. "Here," he says, putting them next to her. "Elevate."

It makes Natasha feel itchy, somehow, the little things this mostly-stranger is doing for her. She's done nothing to deserve them, but here they are, and she doesn't know quite how to react. So she smiles at him again, and just says thank you.

* * *

Steve turns out to be a decent caretaker; he knows all the good reality shows on Netflix, and he even makes dinner for them-- well, he opens the box and boils the macaroni before adding a powder that he claims is actual cheese, but still, it's hot and it's filling and Natasha doesn't have to make it herself, so she's not about to complain.

It's after 11, Steve dozing to an episode of _Naked and Afraid_ , when Clint finally texts back.

_Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry! I'm in Australia and kinda just woke up. You okay?_

Natasha is decidedly not okay, but she's doing a lot better than she had been when she first texted him. Turns out a little roommate time isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to her.

 _I probably won't die_ she texts back. _But it sucks._

She fights down the urge to ask him what the fuck he's doing in Australia-- they'll get there, she thinks, but right now this is her pity party, and he's supposed to be the entertainment.

 _You dance_ he texts back. _What kind of dancing?_

Natasha rolls her eyes. Half of her wants to tell him that she's a stripper, just to see how deeply he can insert his foot into his mouth, but he hasn't earned that today. Not yet.

 _Ballet_ she tells him. _I'm a student._

The TV drones on, terrible people getting eaten by flies in the wilderness for her entertainment. It's not very entertaining, she thinks. But it does put her situation into relief. At least no one has taken her pants.

_You're a ballerina! Or a ballerino? What does one call a boy ballerinist? Are you any good?_

Natasha starts to giggle, despite herself, and Steve stirs next to her. She smiles, taking the blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over his shoulders before turning off the TV. He probably has to get up in the morning and do something artisty. Whatever he does. She should let him sleep.

She tries to be as quiet as she can, clomping the short distance to her room before she responds to Clint.

_They're called danseurs, I'm a girl, and I'm a lot better when I'm not in a boot. Why are you in Australia?_

She has time to change into her nightclothes and brush her hair before he responds.

_Here for work. Walking boots suck. Ever torn a rotator cuff?_

Despite herself, Natasha wants to know more about this guy. What kind of job does he have that takes him to the other side of the world and also has afforded him an intimate knowledge of a torn rotator cuff and a walking boot? Is it okay to ask him? 

_No_ she says. _But I have calluses on my feet that would make a grown man weep._

This still feels alien, the act of sending her thoughts and feelings to a stranger she might never meet. But it's nice to have someone listen, even if he's just words on a screen.

 _Sexy_ , he shoots back. _Don't tear your rotator cuff. It smarts forever._

 _Don't be gross_ she types. _Also what kind of work takes you to Australia?_

He waits so long to respond that she's starting to wonder if he will; if she's crossed a line in asking for details and if they're done. But finally, her phone chirps.

 _Archery clinic_ he says. And nothing more. Which just turns Natasha's insides even more. Is he being coy, or just laconic? Does he not want her to be asking questions? Has she crossed a line? It all makes her head hurt, trying to navigate this maze. She decides to be done, to say good night and end this shitshow of a day before she spends any more time wondering if she's saying the right things.

 _I have to take a painkiller_ she replies. _Gonna pass out. Have a good day in Australia._

Clint, who Natasha is beginning to suspect might be a pain in the ass that rivals the pain in her foot, texts back a laughing emoji. It takes her a good thirty seconds to get the joke-- she said "good day". Like Australians do. In cartoons.

No way this weird, drunk, archery-person who texted her by accident is over 14. Not mentally.

 _Get some rest_ , he says, after the emoji. _Recover quickly, and painlessly._

As endings go, Natasha thinks that's a good enough one. She plugs her phone in and lies in bed staring at the ceiling in the dark for a long time, wondering how much of what Clint says is even true.

* * *

The school has physical therapists on staff, which means she can get an appointment the day after they put her in the damn boot. She clambers down the street and on to the subway to get to campus, staring out the window as the city flashes by.

Natasha has a great ability to focus, and a single-minded desire to get back on her feet. She attacks physical therapy the way she attacks a new routine or exercise. Her moves are precise, and she would gladly do the exercises for hours on end, if they would let her.

"Don't," her therapist, a cute man whose name tag reads "S. Wilson" says, when she tells him she wants to keep going. "You're done."

"We've only been at it for an hour," she says. "I can go more."

Wilson shakes his head. "Maybe you can," he says. "But you have to rest or you'll make it worse."

Natasha doesn't like being told no, or what she can and can't do. She could keep going. She could keep going for the rest of the day.

"I don't want to do nothing," she snaps, and she does regret it a little when he looks at her like she's a spoiled brat, but she can't stop herself. "Please, I'm sorry, I just-- come on, don't tell me I have to stop. I can't stop."

He doesn't respond right away, instead makes a note in her chart-- probably about what an asshole she is-- and looks her over. 

"You can exercise," he says, his voice a schooled patience that makes Natasha feel about three inches tall. "You can use the stationary bike for cardio. Or swim. Swimming is great. But no impact. And you do the exercises we did today, for an hour a day. One. And we meet again next week."

A week. The timeframe hits Natasha like a wrecking ball. She's already reeling from the idea of not dancing, but it makes it worse to know she'll have to sit and watch the others do the routines. She doesn't get to sit at home and watch daytime TV; she actually has to attend, and learn, and suffer in public. She has to watch the others move like a finely tuned machine, and she gets to be nothing.

* * *

A week is a year is a decade is an eternity.

* * *

Sitting through the classroom portions of her courses is not too difficult, but when Wednesday rolls around and she has to sit through Character Dance, Natasha feels like crawling out of her skin. 

It's her favorite class, the one where she feels both the least and most herself, where she can throw herself into being something more through movement. It's a beautiful thing. Until she has to watch a tall girl with long, black hair and surprising strength -- whose name appears to be Jessica -- try and embody Juliet.

It's not right; Jessica doesn't understand how to hold her weight higher in her chest like a younger person does. She doesn't move like someone frantic for her love to come back. She doesn't _embody_ anything. It's all Natasha can do to not jump up and try the part herself, to let Jessica fail and know Natasha would have succeeded.

The girl who helped her, maybe-Elaina, is not terrible. She does a passible Myrtha, queen of the spirits of jilted women. She has a ferocity that pulls something in Natasha, that compels her and makes her want to know more. But it takes her time to get there, and time to get back. Elaina doesn't inhabit flawlessly.

Natasha takes mental notes through the class-- she would have moved differently, would have done it better. She goes home tired frustrated and itching to dance.

* * *

She also swims; it's the only thing she can do that even feels like dancing. The freedom underwater is liberation. But the pool at the neighborhood Y is only open so late, and on Saturday night, her hair still damp and smelling of chlorine, Natasha finds herself watching YouTube alone at midnight.

She's bored, she thinks. It's hard to stay still and heal. It's hard to not have to focus. She just wants something to do.

And then her phone buzzes.

_**Drunk Clint** _  
_Just a warning, I'm home and I'm drinking tonight._

She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling. It's the first time she's smiled this week, she thinks. Since Steve made her dinner and fell asleep on the couch. 

_What's wrong?_ Natasha types, though part of her wonders if she should be engaging him when he's clearly in a bad place.

His response is instant. _She's gonna sleep with Hunter._

The name "Hunter" is familiar. From his first messages. She scrolls back a little to find it, to try to understand what exactly is going on.

 _I'm guessing "she" is the elusive Bobbi who you thought I was?_ she says, trying to decide exactly how to phrase things, to ask the questions that she wants answered without seeming too interested in his drama.

He delays just long enough for Nat to start wondering if she's crossed a line. _Ex wife_ , he replies, at long last. 

Well, that's something. An in to his personal life, a glimpse into who this guy actually is. She decides that if he's going to open a door, she might as well step over the threshold. _How long were you married?_ she types. 

_Two years, but I was bad at it._

Natasha stares, unseeing, at the TV. He was married two years. He goes to Australia to do archery. He's lived a life. There's a good chance he's like, twice her age. And that's insane. But she's not quite ready to leave this thread and let him not tell her about his deeply interesting pain.

 _So who's Hunter?_ she asks, half hoping for something salacious like him being Clint's brother or his best man.

Unfortunately, she's met with a much more mundane answer. _Some dickbag she works with. She's a professor of Bio at Culver. Fucking brilliant. Out of my league._ He says, which is a wealth of information that Nat needs to unpack slowly. 

_You like smart girls?_ she says, stretching a little. She should go to bed. She should wash her hair. She should be sensible. But he replies quickly, and he takes thoughts of sensibility right out of her head.

 _I like smart people._ It's an obvious opening, and she knows in her heart that this guy is not anyone's older sibling. Not if he's leaving himself open like that.

 _Opposites attract._ she types, and she doesn't think nearly long enough about it, just presses send and then immediately feels the regret hit her like a-- well, like a cracked bone.

But she can't take it back, so instead she tries to move past it as fast as possible. _So how do you know your ex is going to sleep with someone else?_ she types, hoping that maybe the answer will be "I don't" or something else that she can deflect and make it better.

His response is quick again, and it's just garbled enough that Nat is wondering how hard his autocorrect is working right now, how many drinks he's had. _Out friend trip told me._

Nat rolls her eyes at him, again. _You know someone named Trip? How rich are you?_ she says, trying to elicit any non-morose or non-miserable reply.

It doesn't come. There are five long minutes where she watches more TV without really seeing the screen, not sure what she's even watching anymore. Definitely trash. Absolutely mindless.

The silence becomes deafening, and Natasha knows she's fucked up. She shouldn't have tried to joke. He's not in that kind of place.

 _Are you okay alone?_ she asks, when she can't take his quiet any longer.

 _You trying to come over?_ he shoots back, and yeah, he's drunk. He's done. And she's not okay with him hitting on her so blatantly-- though maybe she opened the door on that one. Maybe she can't get mad at him for just replying to what seemed like an invitation.

 _It's late_ she says, instead. _I'm trying to go to bed. Don't choke to death on your own vomit._

Natasha flips off the tv and pushes herself to standing, rolling her neck as she starts the limp to her room. Her phone is buzzing before she even gets there, though, and she glances down as she turns on her bedroom light.

_Most people fin. Me harmless flirting disarming and charming you n w_

Of course they do. She's starting to wonder if maybe the reason Clint is so hung up on his ex is that she's the only person who's said no to him in a long time. He needs a little "no" in his life. Natasha shuts her door and sits on her bed, thinking for a long few minutes as she tries to come up with the right reply that shuts down this avenue but doesn't stop the conversation permanently.

 _I wouldn't be talking to you if you weren't at least a little charming_ she says, _But you have to stop trying to invite me over. It's weird._

He has the good sense not to reply, and Natasha puts herself to bed for the night.

* * *

She doesn't hear from Clint for the rest of the weekend, and on Monday she has to drag her sorry ass over to the train and downtown, to school. She chooses a spot against the wall before her Adagio class and settles in as the others begin to arrive.

The girl who helped her on the day she was injured sets her stuff next to Natasha and stands to tie back her hair in a _chignon_.

"Hi," she says, smiling faintly. "Heard you broke your foot."

Nat nods and gestures to the awful boot. "Stress fracture."

"That sucks," the woman says and then offers Nat her hand. "I'm Yelena. I don't think we've officially met."

Natasha's relief could fill a building. An airplane hanger. A dance studio. The idea of having to ask her new acquaintance's name was mortifying, but she knew she'd have had to, eventually. Instead she takes the offered hand. "Natasha."

"I know," Yelena says, not unkindly. "I hope you get better soon."

The class is starting and Yelena has to take her place, so Natasha just nods and shoos her away. "Go dance. We can talk after."

* * *

Watching the others dance in unison isn't even remotely the same as being a part of it herself, but Natasha still finds herself soothed by the movement. The raise of an arm is beautiful, even when it isn't her arm. She takes mental notes on Yelena's form and Jessica's expression and everything else, but Nat still manages to lose herself in the feel of ensemble for a moment. She's almost sad when it ends, when the piano stops and the dancers in front of her turn back into people

"Do you have any other classes today?" Yelena asks, as she changes out of her slippers and into street shoes. 

"Yeah," Natasha says. "I have music theory at 1:30."

Yelena glances at the wall. It's a little after noon. "Good," she says. "Then let's get some lunch."

It's strange; Natasha's first instinct is to say no, to decline Yelena's invitation and say that she's good, she doesn't need a buddy to watch her eat a salad. But it's not like she has anything else to do, and it's not like she has a valid excuse.

So she lets Yelena lead her to the elevator and down to the cafeteria making small talk about the weather and classes and nothing in particular. It's weird, it's uncomfortable and it's somehow completely perfect.

"So," Yelena says, when they've gotten their food and are seated. "Where are you from?"

"Volgograd," Natasha says. "In Russia. But we moved to Cleveland when I was about 10. You?"

Yelena smiles. "Brighton Beach. My parents came over when I was a baby, they're from Samara. You don't have an accent."

"Я не?" Natasha smiles, pretty sure something as simple as 'I don't?' will be translatable to someone with fluent parents.

"Not much, no," Yelena says, and Natasha can't help beaming at her, at the fact that she's been understood. 

"Вы говорите по-русски?" It's simple, the kind of thing they teach in 100-level courses. _Do you speak Russian?_

"I can understand it, but not speak it," Yelena says. "My parents didn't like us speaking it in the house, they wanted us to blend."

Natasha nods. "Us?"

The look in Yelena's eye is almost inscrutable. It's something like sadness and something like pain. "My sisters. They're twins. Older."

"Do they dance?" Natasha asks, hoping that her blasé attitude comes off as relaxed and not disinterested. She's not sure how, exactly, to do this.

"Nah," Yelena waves her hand as if she's brushing the question out of the air. "An oncologist and a banker. I'm what you might call the black sheep."

Natasha takes a minute to figure out how to reply to that; it's not something you really expect to be told by a casual acquaintance. "You're good," she says, after a few seconds. "I mean, at dancing. I noticed you before you helped me the other day. You have a natural turnout"

Yelena smiles at her. "Thank you. You're probably the best one in our year at character dance. You really seem to-- I don't know, to change? When you choose a character, you kinda just melt into them?"

Natasha smiles back. "Thank you," she says, suddenly feeling a little shy at being so seen. "I like character dance a lot."

"I can tell," Yelena says. "So what brings you to New York?"

"This," Natasha says, waving her hand vaguely at the space around them. "Dancing. Learning. This conversation."

"Do you have any family here?" Yelana asks, taking a contemplative bite of her lunch.

Natasha shakes her head. "No. My parents are dead. I don't have any sisters or brothers. It was just us."

"Well," Yelena says, softly. "If you ever want a good Coulibiac, let me know. You can come meet my mom."

"Thanks," Natasha says, and she thinks she kinda means it.

* * *

Theory is fine. But when she's back on the train Natasha finds herself glancing around, wishing for someone to tell about her conversation with Yelena. There's a cute guy texting, a kind of thin, dark-haired man with a gentle face, and Natasha finds herself wondering if it could be Clint. If she could have shared a train, a seat, or even a long look with the man and never known it.

There are so many people in the city, though, she thinks it's not overly likely. More likely he lives on the Upper West Side in whatever kind of mansion a jet-setting international archer can afford.

She spends some time putting her dark-haired man into that kind of apartment, with high windows and echoey hallways and a view of Central Park. He doesn't fit there, but neither would she.

By the time the train pulls to her station, she's made up her mind, and she disembarks before pulling her phone out.

 _Saw a guy texting on the 3 train today. Was it you?_ she sends, smiling to herself. If nothing else, it's an invitation back in. And she thinks she owes him one of those.

* * *

Steve is actually home when Natasha gets there, and there are about fifteen people in their living room. One of them, a dark-haired man with one arm, is yelling about Kandinsky and three of them are wearing berets. She's seen the one-armed man before, but the others are new. Still, they smell like patchouli and paint thinner, and they're talking to Steve, so they're almost certainly artists.

Natasha tries to sneak by their confab, but Steve clearly sees her because their apartment is about the size of half of a matchbox and the only way she would have gone unnoticed is if she was actually invisible.

"Hey," Steve calls out, waving her into the space. "Everyone, this is Natasha. Nat, this is the Commandos."

"Hi," Natasha says, trying not to get stuck on the idea of being called _Nat_ like this boy she lives with is comfortable enough to give out her nickname.

A chorus of hellos and a what's up come back at her, and she smiles what she hopes is a convincing smile at them. "Don't let me interrupt," she says, as if this was their living room and not hers. As if she was the intruder. "Long day, I'm going to just--" she gestures towards her room.

"Okay," Steve nods. "We're going out in a bit, there's a thing in Greenpoint around nine. You want to join?"

"Nah," Natasha waves the invitation away. "I'm in for the night. Have fun, though."

Steve's forehead creases just a little as Natasha declines his invitation, but he straightens up pretty quickly. "Okay, let us know if we're too loud?"

"Yeah," Natasha says, her palms itching as she stands there, anxious to get away from all of these people. It's weird; she usually loves a stage. But something about the way these artists look at her, it's like they all think they're Degas. Like they all want to study her and put her muscles in little boxes for reference. She doesn't like it. "Good night," she says, and makes a move to head to her room.

She's almost there when she hears the guy who was ranting before start up again, yelling about German expressionism.

Nat fishes her phone out of her bag when the door is safely closed behind her, only half hoping that Clint will have written her back while she was distracted by whatever the fuck just happened in her living room. 

And there it is, the little red "1" that means she's not yelling into the void. The one that signifies the void yelling back.

 _Yup,_ Clint's message reads. _That's me. The real reason I was in Australia: olympic-level train texting._

Natasha actually laughs at that. _Knew it._ she sends back. _I liked your glittery coat._

It takes a second for the full impact of his previous text to hit her-- Olympic level. She can't believe she's never thought of it before-- she flips open her browser and types "Olympic archer Clint" into google.

In a second, all of her questions are answered. A picture - and he's blonde and cute - and a web page and all kinds of articles and stats and a Wikipedia page. If he's telling the truth, if this is who he really is, then she's texting with someone famous. Someone important. And that's just weird as hell.

And then he texts her again.

_You live in Brooklyn?_

Natasha rolls her eyes and responds _Only if you're not going to murder me_ , before she flips back to his actual Wikipedia page.

Oh, god, his middle name is Francis.

A weird feeling of shame washes over her, like she's somehow intruding on this guy's privacy by reading his public information. She could find out where he practices, she thinks. She could know where he grew up, his height and weight, even what episodes of _Arrow_ he's consulted on. All the tiny minutiae that make up a person, at her fingertips.

And he doesn't even know her full name.

 _Murder is a lot of work_ , her allegedly world-famous texting buddy tells her, and she can see the smirking picture, the cocky grin and his blue eyes without even trying.

 _Agreed._ she responds. _That's why you shouldn't._

And then, before he can say anything in response, she decides to come clean. _I googled you. Your last name is Barton?_

 _Learn anything good?_ he asks, like she isn't admitting to peeking in his windows and going through his trash. And what the fuck is she even supposed to say to that? 

_Not really_ she types. _I'd rather not get to know you from ArcheryGuy420's edits._ It's somehow even true, Natasha thinks. As much as she wants to know more about this man, she wants any truth she earns to be offered. She doesn't want the parts of him that won a gold medal in Rio; she wants the parts of him that drink too much. She wants to know how he takes his coffee. She wants the bits that no one else cares about. She wants to know the mess, not the myth. 

_I live in Bed-Stuy._ he says, still either calm or oblivious to the fact that Natasha is basically cyberstalking him. _We're neighbors._

Natasha stares at her phone for a long time, trying to figure out what to say to that. In the end, she leaves him on read. Because the alternate, the continuing of the conversation, is more than she can handle right now.

* * *

The next few weeks manage to go by without Natasha dwelling on Clint too hard. Sure, there are a few times when she takes out her phone to text him- but she doesn't, for example, tell him that she's decided he looks like Christopher Wheeldon or that her physical therapist is actually a stone-cold fox. She doesn't need to do that. There's no reason to do that.

But her fingers kinda itch when she thinks about it, thinks about him smiling at his phone when he sees her name -- what is she in his phone, anyway? -- pop up in the notifications.

She does give in to the urge to skim the _professional_ part of his Wikipedia page, and it's a trip and a half. One of the youngest people ever to qualify for the US team at 16, he has multiple golds under his belt and is listed as "semi-retired", which could mean just about anything.

He owns two ranges, one in Brooklyn that she's totally not going to, and another in Toronto that is run by his brother, whose page Natasha ignores because that's just going too far.

(He has a brother, though, named Bernard. Their parents were terrible at naming people.)

* * *

Still, she holds firm for a good three weeks - which means she's just a week from being free of the boot - before she takes Yelena up on her offer of actual Russian food and finds herself in a spacious, airy kitchen in Brighton Beach one Saturday night.

Yelena looks like her mother; small, blonde, strong. Beautiful. Her father has a similar brashness, an open face and a wide smile and he hugs Natasha when she comes into the house.

"Have some Kvass," he says, offering her a cup, and his accent feels like a warm embrace. She misses the guttural way he spits his v-sounds, the same way her Papa did.

"Вы очень добры," Natasha says, the words more at home in her mouth than an English thank you would be.

It's all so normal. It's all so homey. It's all so foreign.

"Yelka tells us you are the best in your year," Mrs. Belova says, as they sit down to eat.

The bowl of Pelmeni in front of her is too tempting, Natasha has one in her mouth before she can reply, the steaming dumpling scalding her tongue.

"Not right now," she says, when she swallows. "I'm not dancing at all right now."

Mr. Belov nods sagely. "You'll bounce back," he says. "We'll see you dance in the spring."

Natasha doesn't know what to say to that, just ducks her head and eats another dumpling. It's exactly what her mother would have said, and it hurts more than her foot ever has.

* * *

Natasha gets home early from her dinner-- the Belovs went to Shul for Havdala, and Natasha declined to join them, though they certainly tried to convince her to go. She liked them, but she couldn't stand any more time with them. It was like having dinner with ghosts, the way she felt her parents in the room. The back of her neck was raised the whole time.

She opens a bottle of red wine which Steve probably told her she could have, and is rocking a decent buzz an hour after dinner, after half a glass. So she decides to text Clint. _My full name is Natalia Romanoff. Most people call me Natasha. I don't have a Wikipedia page._

She's used to him being a quick responder, so it bugs her a little when he doesn't hit her back right away. Part of her starts to wish she had gone with Yelena and her family. Even that would have been better than literally sitting by the phone.

Finally, fourteen agonizing minutes of _Shark Tank_ later, her phone buzzes.

And then in buzzes again. And again. And Natasha realizes, with a dawning horror, that for the first time since she got this number someone is calling her.

Not just someone. The caller ID says _Drunk Clint_.

Who the fuck calls someone in response to a text?

Still, she decides, this is an opening. She likes openings.

"Hello?" she says, when she answers, because she needs to pretend that she doesn't know who he is.

"Natalia Romanoff," he says. His voice is rich. He sounds like Prokofiev's Balcony Scene. "This is your penpal."

"Hi," she says, muting the tv. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well," he's slurring his words a little, which shouldn't surprise her as much as it does. "Doctor Morse is not fucking Hunter."

Natasha doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. She knows Hunter was the guy his ex was going to sleep with, but the doctor part is a little strange. "And Dr. Morse is your Bobbi?"

"No," Clint says. "Not my Bobbi. Dr. Morse is Bobbi's Bobbi."

"Oh," Natasha says, because she's starting to wonder how much of this conversation he's going to remember tomorrow. "What the fuck does that mean?"

She can hear a beer bottle open clearly, and hears him take a swig. "It means that I have been informed in very extremely clear terms that it is none of my shitty business what she does or does not do with her genitals."

Well, this got real weird real fast. "I mean, does she get a say in your sex life?"

"That-- that's not what I mean," he says. "I just hate that guy so much."

"But she's not sleeping with him, and you are clearly drunk," Natasha tells him, setting back onto the couch. This is going to be a long call.

"Oh, I am past clearly," he says. "I am _conspicuously_ drunk. And I still love her is why."

The sinking feeling in Natasha's chest isn't totally surprising, but she's still willing to lie to herself and say that it is, lest she end up the second drunkest asshole in Brooklyn tonight. "How come you're not going to Tokyo?” she says, trying to redirect both of them. "Wikipedia doesn't say."

"Because," Clint says, emphasizing every single syllable. "Everyone in Chula Vista can kiss my ass."

"Ah," Natasha says. "I see you're in a mood for explaining tonight."

"'S dumb," he says. "Just-- points and shit. Got a fucking head injury, right, just slammed in the head by a bow from some asshole I was teaching and I was told not to shoot cause I had the spins and they wouldn't let me make up a meet. So fuck 'em. They'll be back when they don't fucking place. They'll miss me."

Natasha shakes her head "Of course they will."

"They will!" Clint says, his voice actually less slurred and a little less angry. "You'll see-- 2020, they won't do better than bronze. Korea is going to take them out back and shoot them. You'll see."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "I have never in my life watched the Olympics," she says. "But if you want to talk me through it, I will be glad to gloat at your countrymen."

"Hey," he says. "Wha'd'ya mean? You never seen me shoot? I have a YouTube, you know. You might learn a something"

"Clint," Natasha says, laughing. She knows about the YouTube. Of course she knows. But that doesn't make him special-- she has one, too. With 26 followers and one comment, because she's a student ballerina and not an Olympic gold winner. "I spend fifteen hours of my day dancing or talking about dancing or thinking about dancing and I don't really want to think about sports or athletics when I get home."

"That," Clint says, and she can just see the finger he's wagging in her face. "Is why ballet will never be in the Olympics."

"Maybe," she says, the smile still on her face. "But people pay $250 to go to American Ballet Theatre rehearsals. What do I have to pay to see you shoot? Three dollars for the subway down to your range?"

"You know I have a range," he says, and she can hear his answering smile. "Should I be worried for my safety?"

He's joking, she knows. He's been joking all along. But she hears the voice of the police detective, those same words in the wake of her parents' death. She feels the cold steel of the police station chair, can smell the antiseptic and cigarette tar. _We're worried for your safety, Ms. Romanoff. We want to make sure there was no foul play._

"My parents are dead," she says, like someone removed the filter between her brain and her mouth. "I had dinner with a friend's parents tonight, and I hate them for being too much like Mama and Papa."

The silence feels crushing, but it doesn't even last long enough for one of the Sharks on the TV to decline to invest.

"Mine're dead, too," he says. "For a long time. Never stops sucking."

Natasha smiles despite herself. "You miss them?"

What a stupid fucking question. He's just said it never stops sucking, and now she's asking if it still sucks. She really shouldn't drink and talk.

"I miss my mom," he says, simply. "Dad was a rat bastard. You?"

Natasha feels the tears in her throat, but she's not going to cry. Not on the phone, not to him. Though, if anyone would understand, she thinks it might be him.

"I miss them both," she says. "They've only been gone eight months."

Clint makes a knowing noise like a hum, and she needs to get off this call sooner than later, before she tells him everything and has nothing of her own to keep inside. She swallows her emotion and puts on her best 'I'm-totally-fine' voice.

"I'm going to say good night to you," she says.

"What?" he sounds surprised, like he can't understand why she wouldn't want to keep talking about her dead parents. "Why?"

"Because I have plans tomorrow," she lies. "And I can't stay up all night talking to your drunk ass."

"Hot date?" he says, like he hadn't flat-out told her that he was still in love with his ex five minutes ago.

"What is it you said?" she says. "What I do with my genitals is none of your business."

He laughs, an honest, throaty laugh and Natasha feels herself blush with pleasure at having gotten this sad-sack to cheer up that much. 

"Fair enough," he says, still chuckling. "You and your genitals have a good night."

"You're gross," she tells him, but she's smiling and she's pretty sure he can hear it in her voice.

"Good night, Natalia Romanoff," he says. There's a smile in his voice, too.

"Good night, Drunk Clint," she responds, and hangs up the phone.

She sits, staring at the shapes on the TV for a long moment before she turns it off and looks at her phone again. Against her better judgment, she opens youtube and types in his name, but her sense returns suddenly and she closes the app before she can hit "search". Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

"Okay," Yelena says. "Explain this again?"

Natasha sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She shouldn't be talking to Yelena about this, but when she woke up the morning after her call with Clint, she needed to tell someone what was happening in her life. She managed to make it all the way to dinner time before her dams broke; Steve was out with his crew by then, so she called her other friend.

Now it's 7:30 and they're in a Starbucks in Flatbush and Natasha is staring into her tea wishing that there was an easy way to explain this to a person she's known for two months.

"So, there's a guy," she says, finally. "And I guess I have his ex's phone number, cause he drunk texted me--"

"Yup," Yelena sighs. "And he turns out to be a famous archer who you just happen to be in love with or something--"

"I'm not in love!" Natasha says, a little louder than she intended to. 

Yelena shrugs. "Fine, not in love. Just weirdly obsessed. And it's never like, even one time occurred to you to wonder if he's telling you the truth?"

"It has," Natasha says, not looking at her friend. "But at this point-- I mean, why would he lie about that? It doesn't impress me."

The look Yelena gives her is too close to pitying for Natasha to be entirely comfortable with. "Fine," Natasha says, finally. "Okay, fine. It's a wild story. But I could always ask him for proof."

"You could," Yelena agrees, making a 'go ahead' gesture. "Be my guest."

Natasha takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone.

 _My friend thinks you're fake._ she texts Clint. _Got any proof you are who you claim to be?_

She holds out the phone to show Yelena. "Happy?"

Yelena takes a deeply smug sip of her coffee. "Yup," she says, and Natasha is sincerely looking forward to being proved right and wiping that look off of her friend's face.

* * *

Clint takes about ten minutes to text back, which is slow for him.

_Damn, you figured me out. My real name is John Smith and I'm 94 years old._

Natasha rolls her eyes, but his second text comes through before she can even show Yelena his sarcasm.

It's a video. It's a video with his face in it. And it's not a selfie- someone else is filming it or he's propped his phone up at an angle to she can see him from the waist up. His arms do not disappoint.

"Okay," Natasha says, pushing her phone at Yelena. "Proof."

The two ballerinas huddle around the phone and Yelena presses play.

"Hi, Nat," the handsome blond on the screen says. "I'm actually Clint. Not catfishing you."

He holds up his right hand, where he's written the date in purple sharpie. "If your friend needs more proof, come down to the range. Talk to Kate at the desk, and then believe the opposite of whatever she tells you."

"Hey!" a woman's voice exclaims, before the camera turns around to show a young brunette with a scowl on her face. "I'm gonna tell her you're hot, then!"

"She's terrible," Clint says, and the woman makes a face. "I should fire her. Anyway. Lesson to teach, I'm real, bye."

There's a short scuffle before the video cuts out, and Natasha can just hear the woman, who is probably Kate, say "So this was for your booty call?" in a loud, obvious way before it ends. She has to smile; it's kinda nice to see that he has at least one other friend, though he could maybe drunk text _her_ every so often instead of Natasha.

Yelena has begun putting things in her bag as if she's ready to leave. "What are you--?" Natasha starts to ask.

The look in Yelena's eyes is pure devilry. It's the look of a woman who's about to pull some Serious Shit.

"He invited you to the range," she says, in the most affectedly calm voice Natasha has ever heard. "So, let's go. I need more proof."

Natasha opens and closes her mouth a few times. "Um, no? We're not doing that."

"You don't have to," Yelena shrugs. "But if I go down there without you, he's going to have questions. And he's not going to ask me."

Yelena turns on her heel and drops her trash in the can, moving towards the door without even waiting for Natasha to answer.

Holy shit, her friend is an evil genius.

Natasha shoves her wallet into her pocket and scoops up her phone. "Okay!" she calls, hobbling to her friend as best her walking boot will let her. "Okay, jeez. Wait up."

Her mind is still reeling as she follows Yelena out of the coffee shop and into the subway, on her way to meet a guy who has just become an Actual Person and not a Disembodied Idea and she might actually have a crush on and for the first time in Natasha's life, she's not actually sure what she's going to do next.

* * *

Clint's range looks like a shitty warehouse from the outside, in a row of equally shitty warehouses. The only thing that distinguishes it at all is a logo - three concentric rings in varying shades of purple over which is the name "HAWKEYE RANGE". It's exactly the kind of shabby Natasha expected.

It's about 8 pm, now, the street lit by sporadic pools from streetlights and the neon CLOSED sign on the garage across the street.

Natasha stands for a long time on the sidewalk next to Yelena, trying to gather her courage and open the door. She'd mostly gathered it on the train, but then the train had stopped and they'd walked a few blocks and, well, it all seemed so much easier on the train.

"Well," Yelena says, poking Natasha in the side. "Go on."

Natasha shakes her head. "I don't want to."

"If you didn't want to," Yelena raises an eyebrow. "Then you never would have come all the way down here with me. Go on, make your dreams come true."

The worst part of this whole thing is that Yelena is right -- if she hadn't wanted to be here, she didn't have to leave the Starbucks or get on the train or get _off_ the train. But here they are.

Natasha pulls the door open.

The woman from the video is at the front desk, looking annoyed as she fiddles with some arrows in front of her. The whole place has a sweaty smell, mixed with leather and IcyHot that vaguely reminds her of a ballet studio. There's a glass wall behind the desk through which Natasha can see the range. The sound of arrows is loud--not rhythmic, but regular, and she sees what must be Clint helping a kid not older than ten or twelve, moving the child's feet and adjusting his shoulders.

Something in her twists, and keeps twisting, at the gentle way he interacts with the kids he's teaching. She's had a lot of ballet teachers, many of whom have had the same kind of stance he does, the same kind bearing. It hurts. 

"He's so good," one of the parents gathered in the room says to another, watching the same show that Natasha is seeing. "I bet both Colm and Aaron go to Junior Nationals."

The other parent says something in response, but Natasha's attention is pulled by the ringing of the phone at the front desk.

The brunette answers it, not quite looking up from what she's doing. "Welcome to Hawkeye Range," she says, in the most practiced and bored voice Natasha has heard. "Where you'll see better from a distance. I'm Kate, how can I help you?"

Natasha glances over her shoulder at Yelena, who makes a shooing motion. Natasha swallows and approaches the desk.

"No," Kate says, holding up a finger at Natasha. There appears to be a feather glued to her hand. "Yes. Thursday. Ten thirty. Okay, thank you, too!"

Nat shifts her weight as Kate hangs up and looks at her. "Hi," Kate says, actually smiling. "What's up?"

"Um," Natasha bites her lip. "You have a feather glued to your hand."

Kate laughs. "Occupational hazard," she shrugs, pulling at the offending fibers. "It happens."

"I'm Natasha," says Natasha. "Nat. Natalia. I'm here to see Clint? He said to ask for you, I think."

Kate's eyebrows hit her hairline, she raises them so high. "You're Nat? You're _real_? Holy crap. Hi."

"Hi," Natasha gestrues toward the range. "Is, uh-- I guess he's in there?" She feels like this is an audition, like this is some kind of test that she has to pass to get to meet this guy who she's not totally sure she should be meeting.

"Yeah!" Kate waves behind her. "He's teaching the intermediate class, but it's only another 5 minutes. You want to wait?"

Nat glances over her shoulder at Yelena, who nods, and then steps forward. "Yes," she says to Kate. "Yes, she'll wait. Hi, by the way. Yelena Belova. Ballerina."

Kate looks like she's been hit by ice water, the way she sits up straight and meets Yelena's eyes. "Kate," she says. "Kate Bishop, archerist."

Natasha has no idea what's happening, but Yelena is laughing and shaking Kate's hand and it's suddenly entirely possible that they're here because Yelena wanted to meet the cute brunette who is currently sweating oddly and not because Natasha has a weird text buddy.

What even is her life?

* * *

Yelena is still at the reception desk with Kate 10 minutes later, learning how to fix arrows, when the tall, broad, blonde man walks out of the range area with the last kid. Natasha has chosen a couch against the wall, giving Yelena room to flirt and herself a moment (or six, or ten) to get herself together and convince herself not to leave.

"Okay, Owen," Clint says, getting down on the kid's level. "What are you practicing before next week?"

"My grip," the kid says, sheepishly. "45 degrees, I know."

Clint gives the kid an affectionate pat on the shoulder and waves him out the door before turning his attention to the lobby, where his assistant or whatever is flirting with the person who was supposed to be backing up Natasha in this moment. "Kate," he says, and the brunette jumps.

"Yeah, boss?"

"How're the repairs coming?"

Kate smiles at him the way Natasha imagines a sibling would. "If I fix them all, can I go to the ball?" she asks, sounding saccharine-sweet before turning to Yelena and adopting an exaggerated stage whisper. "He told me that I wasn't allowed to call out with affluenza to see Cap and the Iron Man play at the Bowrey. Said I promised to do repairs."

"You did," Clint says, shaking his head and turning to Nat. "Now this," he smiles for a moment and she feels a little weak-kneed. He misses it, though, too busy shooting Kate a look. "Is a customer. Who probably wants to give us money. I'm going to talk to the nice lady with the money, now."

He gives Nat his full attention and his thousand watt smile. "What can I do for you?"

Natasha has no idea what to say, she finds herself staring at him. "I, uh--."

Kate can't seem to contain the shit-eating grin on her face. "Oh, right," she says. "Almost forgot. Boss, your girlfriend is here."

Natasha has just met this woman, but she's pretty sure she'll make a lovely corpse. That is, until she watches Clint's face, sees the smug know-it-all veneer melt from his features. His cheeks flush pink and he offers her his hand, which is smudged with purple sharpie from his video and fucking huge in a way that makes her feel even smaller. She's used to dancer hands, strong but soft, capable of lifting without upsetting proportions. This man has never worried about _proportions_ in his life. He's blushing, though, and most of the men she meets don't blush when they touch her hand. It has to be embarrassment, she thinks. There's no other reason he'd be looking at her like that.

"Nat?" he asks, her name like a song on his lips.

"Hi," she offers, again, feeling suddenly shy. "Sorry, you said we could--"

"No!" he interrupts. "It's good. Hi. It's good you're here--"

"I can go--" she makes a move towards the door.

Clint shakes his head, not letting go of her hand. "No, stay, I--"

"Wow," Kate says, loudly. "You two are so fucking cute."

Natasha snatches her hand back, almost every atom in her body telling her that she should rip off the walking boot, throw it at him, and run like hell.

"Kate," Clint says. "Why don't you go and close up the range?"

"Aw, c'mon!" Kate whines. "It's your night!"

Clint's eyes haven't left Natasha's face, like he's scared she'll disappear if he so much as blinks. She kinda knows how he feels.

"You can have next Friday off," he says. "And you can let your new friend help you."

Natasha glances at Yelena, who looks delighted at the prospect of cleaning an archery range, and Nat thinks her friend is either utterly insane or making a plan to make out on a very uncomfortable pile of arrows. Either way, Natasha thinks it'll be a good night for them.

"Do you want to get a drink?" Clint asks, his attention still stuck on Natasha. 

"Yeah," she says, meeting his intense gaze again. "That sounds good."

* * *

The place he takes her isn't a bar, which is a good thing because Natasha isn't quite 21 and she doesn't really want to have that conversation with him just yet. It's a diner, and the people there seem to know Clint-- he has a water and a coffee and a slice of rhubarb pie in front of him as soon as they sit down, the waitress even calling him 'sweetie' when she drops them by and takes Natasha's order.

But Clint doesn't even seem to notice the things in front of him. He's still staring at Natasha.

"Do I have something on my face?" she asks, finally, touching her cheek.

"What?"

Okay, he's just awkward, then. "You're staring," she says.

Clint smiles, finally glancing down to take a sip of his water. "You didn't tell me you were a redhead," he says. "Actually, you didn't tell me what you looked like at all. And you didn't tell me your last name until last night so searching for you on social media was kinda impossible. Not that I looked. For a picture, I mean."

"Sorry to disappoint," she says, smiling. "Ballerina and all. We tend to be short."

He shakes his head. "So very not a disappointment."

The waitress brings over another glass of water and a mug of tea. "Thanks," Natasha says, but she's really watching Clint.

And he's watching her, waiting for her to make a move.

"I don't know why I'm here," she says, when they're alone again. "I mean-- I wasn't really planning on coming."

Clint raises an eyebrow and dumps about 70 sugars into his coffee. "Why not? I invited you."

Natasha sips her tea, which is way too hot, because she needs a moment to formulate an answer. "I didn't really think you were sincere, I guess. I thought you were just being nice."

"I wanted you to come," he says. "I wanted to meet you like 5 weeks ago."

"Why?" she asks, not really sure what she's going to do with the answer.

"Because--" Clint smiles. "Because you seemed like you needed a friend."

"A friend?" Natasha is a little taken aback. She doesn't need a friend. She never has. She can take care of herself.

Or, at least, she could. She used to be perfectly happy living life as an observer, watching the others in class and not talking to her roommate beyond writing rent checks and venmoing for the electricity and just-- watching. But she has three whole friends, now, Steve and Yelena and Clint, and she's not entirely sure when she decided to have them.

"You texted a drunk stranger because you broke your toe," he says, reaching out to touch the back of her hand where it lays on the tabletop. She glances up, meets his eyes for a moment before looking away. "Not exactly the sign of someone who has a support system."

"I guess not," Natasha shrugs. "But I guess I do now. Or something."

"I guess you do," he nods, and he sits back and watches her like she should have more to say.

The words are there, she can feel them. But they're not words Natasha has ever really said before. Not things she's really shared. And here is this hot mess of a man, an Olympian who seems to have stormed out of his training, a guy who drinks all night and trains kids by day, and a guy who has gentle, sweet blue eyes that make her want to talk for reasons she doesn't understand and kinda doubts she ever will. Natasha stares at the table, tracing the pattern of the cheap linoleum as she begins to talk.

"My parents were it," she says, not looking up. "In Ohio. They were always there. And now they're not."

Clint doesn't say anything, just reaches out and takes her hand again, running his thumb over the back of it. The words keep flowing like she's flipped a switch and she desperately wants to stop, but she just can't. It's like she's standing at the edge of a precipice, and she's not sure if the parachute is even strapped on her back.

"So, I came here. I had a scholarship and money from life insurance and I figured I could make it in New York for a few years if I got a roommate and I was doing just fine. Just _fine_. I wasn't even really thinking about them. And then you texted, and then I got hurt, and then-- Why am I telling you this?" she asks, meeting his eyes at last.

"You needed to tell someone, I guess," Clint shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee without dropping her hand. 

Natasha closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and jumps off the cliff. "They say Papa murdered Mama," she says, looking away again. "Murder-suicide."

"Shit," he breathes, but there's no pity in his voice. She doesn't think she could take his pity.

But she's not done, and she takes her hand back, folds it in her lap and stares at the table. "I don't know a lot of people who commit suicide by shooting themselves in the back of the head," she says.

Clint doesn't say anything, and when she finally looks up he's just studying her like she's an exhibit. Like she's a target.

"My dad absolutely killed my mom," he says. "Drove drunk. Crashed. It doesn't make it any easier. They're still dead."

This is wrong. This feels wrong, the diner is suddenly too big and too small all at once and Natasha can't breathe. She stands quickly, her head swimming. She shouldn't have said anything. She doesn't know anything. She doesn't even know what she was implying. And she has to get out. Now, if not sooner.

She opens her mouth to say something, but no more words seem to want to come out, so she just turns and leaves as fast as she can, pretending she can't hear Clint calling her name as she goes.

* * *

Out in the air, Natasha checks her phone.

Yelena texted at some point that she and Kate were going to get drinks themselves, and that Kate knows a place that doesn't card, and that Natasha and Clint are idiots, and that they shouldn't wait up. 

Fine. She knows where the train is, and she knows how to get there. But the damn boot slows her up too much, and she's not even to the end of the block when Clint catches up with her.

"Hey," he calls. "Hey, Nat!"

She pretends she still can't hear him.

"Hey!" he reaches out and touches her, which feels both wonderful and alien, and it's been weeks since anyone but her therapist has touched her. But tonight he's been all about it, all about the rasp of his rough fingers on her skin. "Nat, are you okay?"

"No!" she snaps, turning on him so quickly her foot sings in pain. "I'm not fucking okay!"

There's a lot of rage in her, apparently, and Natasha is prepared to throw it all at Clint-- all the anger about her parents and her injury and her fucking life-- but she meets his eyes and he just looks so fucking _kind_ that she can't.

Natasha swallows her rage and feels it settle like a hot ball in the pit of her stomach. It burns there, ready to consume her.

"I'm sorry," she says, softly, finally registering that she's cold despite the sun of anger inside of her. He's holding her coat. She left her coat behind in her rush to get out.

"What the hell just happened?" he asks, which is both totally fair and completely impossible to answer.

"I--" Natasha shakes her head. "Sorry. I've never-- no one else knows. Except for the cops. About Mama and Papa. I've never, you know, said it before. Out loud."

It would be so easy to hate him if he would stop having such blue eyes, she thinks. If they weren't carefully lined with a thousand memories of laughter and a million memories of pain. If she didn't think they saw right through her, if they didn't pin her in place faster than one of his arrows.

Yeah. All in all, she blames his eyes.

"I won't say anything," he says. "Unless you do."

"Thanks," she says, but she's not sure that's what she wants at all.

Clint is trying to figure her out; she's gone from a stranger to a mystery very quickly, or something, and it makes her feel a little itchy, the same way Steve's friends make her feel. Like she needs to perform.

"Come back inside," he says. "Try the pie."

"No," Natasha shakes her head. "Thank you, but no. I'd rather- I kinda want to go home."

Clint nods and offers his hand to shake. "Fair enough. Good night."

And that's not what she wants, either. She's got a list of things she doesn't want that's so long she thinks she could see it from outer space. And she's got nothing on the list of things she does want, except dancing.

"Will you walk me to the train?" she asks.

He's cocks his head to the side, staring at her for a long moment. He's confused, and that's okay. So is she. But maybe asking for company is a thing she can want, one more thing to add to the list.

* * *

The platform is cold, but not crowded, which is nice for a change. 

"Are you really still in love with your ex?" she asks, when the silence of trains not coming gets too loud.

Clint shrugs. "Maybe," he says, and she believes him. "I don't know. She'll always be important to me. I married her, for Chrissake. But love is- love is complicated."

Natasha doesn't really know what to say to that, and she hears her mama in the back of her head for the first time in a while-- _Don't ask questions if you don't want answers, Nata._

She did want the answer, though. She just doesn't like the one she got.

"If I'm still in love with her, I could see myself getting over her," Clint offers. "I could-- I can see a future, I think, where she doesn't live in my head all day, every day. Where someone else takes that spot"

The train is coming, and Natasha knows their night is over, that after this things are going to be different between them. For so, so many reasons. But she realizes she doesn't want this to be the end of whatever this is. She wants to get to know Clint, to see him again. She came here on a dare, and she left in a panic, but being around him is soothing. He calms her. She needs that.

No. She _wants_ that.

"Listen," she says, as the wind picks up. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. But I-- it was nice to meet you, in real life. And if you decide you're over her, well. You have my number."

"I wasn't-- I don't--" Clint stumbles over words when she flusters him, and that's too fucking adorable for her to deal with tonight, with all the other things swimming through her head.

Natasha leans up and kisses him gently on the cheek, aching in her body to do more but knowing that this is as far as it can go.

"Figure it out, Clint Barton," she says. 

The train pulls up in a scream of metal-on-metal, and Natasha takes a step away from him. 

"Hey!" he calls out, grabbing for her hand. Natasha feels something stir in her chest and she turns to look at Clint one last time before they part.

"Yeah?"

He opens and closes his mouth twice, like he's trying to force words past his teeth and into the world.

"Get home safe," he says, finally, dropping her hand.

That's not what he wanted to say, Natasha knows. It's not what she wanted to hear. They're both leaving a lot on the platform between them.

"Good night," she tells him, and she turns and gets onto the train, using every bit of will in her body to not watch him standing there as she pulls away.

* * *

There is a silence that is a lack of words like a rest between measures. And there is a silence that is an absence, the kind of space where something should be but nothing is. Unfinished silence.

She can't bring herself to text Clint again. Even when S. Wilson tells her, on Friday, that she can remove the boot. She opens the message to tell him, but the last thing he sent was the video, and his smiling face in the thumbnail makes Natasha feel weirdly sick. She can't look at it long enough to text him anything.

* * *

It's not unusual for Steve and his Commando friends to hang out in the apartment on Friday evenings, pre-gaming for whatever weird art event they're heading to.

So when she gets home, without the boot on, Natasha is not surprised to find Steve and his one-armed friend, James, are on the couch with beers in hand.

"That's what we have to do!" James is saying, his voice a little too loud. "The Shiraga thing! The performance of making art!"

"I'm just saying," Steve replies, and Natasha can tell he is utterly exhausted and completely content to be having this conversation for the thirtieth time. "It's been done. We have to be innovative. We have to be new. We can't retread the same path. We forge our own."

Natasha smiles to herself, hanging her coat in the closet. This is their argument; she's heard it often enough that she could have it with herself. How do you provoke and alienate but not lose an audience, blah blah blah.

She walks into the living room, and the boys look up. Usually they'll ask her to weigh in, like she has any idea what kind of art they should be doing to protest income inequality or whatever their cause is this week. She just wants to do the work of beauty in her art, and they don't value that the same way she does.

But today they don't ask her to engage. James grins at her and Steve actually stands up. 

"You got the boot off?" Steve asks, and he sounds as happy as she is, like he's inches from picking her up and swinging her around in celebration, which might be nice. But he doesn't.

"Yup," Nat smiles at them both. "I can dance again. I'm free!"

Steve laughs and nudges James. "You ever seen someone stand in third position with an air cast on?" he asks, laughing a little.

James shakes his head. "No, should I?"

Natasha rolls her eyes at them, but she feels oddly exposed. To be spoken about like this-- it's weird to think that Steve has been paying attention to how she _stands_.

"You should," Steve says. "Nat does it when she brushes her teeth."

"I do not," Natasha smiles slightly. "The arms are all wrong for tooth brushing in third."

Both of the boys laugh, which makes Natasha feel simultaneously embarrassed and pleased and a little lonely.

"What are you guys doing tonight?" she asks, which is the first time she thinks she's ever asked instead of letting them volunteer the information.

"Morita's boyfriend is throwing a rave in Bushwick," James says. He has a warm smile, though he doesn't use it very often. "Gonna finally join us?"

"You know," Natasha smiles back. "I think I might."

* * *

Which is how she finds herself drunk, in a skirt that almost covers her entire ass, dancing in a dark warehouse at midnight. Yelena is next to her, the sweat beading on the back of her neck as she moves to the music. It's cathartic, Natasha thinks, to be out here just moving, again. It feels like coming home, even if it's not fifth position and pas de deux. It's dancing, and it's _wonderful_.

James presses a drink into Natasha's hand and gives her a look that lets her know he likes the way she moves, so she tosses her head back and drains the glass before getting her hand on his shirt and pulling him in to dance with her.

He moves well, he knows how to follow her and his hand feels big and warm on her hips.

But when she looks into his eyes, they're brown. She wants them to be blue. More than anything, she needs them to be blue.

And that's all it takes. Natasha detangles herself from the cute artist, whose only flaw for tonight is that he isn't an archer, and fans herself with a hand.

"I need air," she yells next to Yelena's ear, but Yelena doesn't even flinch. She just nods. She's dancing now with another of Steve's friends, a French guy named Dernier who does some kind of art that involves blowing things up. He talks a lot, but Yelena doesn't seem to mind. Not like Natasha does.

But then again, Yelena is a very different person than Natasha is. She spent a good portion of their lunch on Monday trying to get Natasha to talk about Clint. She doesn’t seem to have much of a boundary there, taking Natasha’s reluctance to share details as an invitation to describe the way Kate kissed her, and the things they did after that kiss, which Natasha has little to no interest in ever knowing about.

Except for the part where she said Kate and Clint had never fucked. That was an important piece of information. But she could have left out the part about how Kate was sucking her nipples when Yelena asked about it.

Yeah, Natasha needs some air. She heads for the door, ignoring James’ protest. She’s too far gone to deal with brown eyes right now.

* * *

Natasha steps into the air, the thumping bass of the party behind her and breathes out. It's late, but the vodka and the bourbon are playing fun games in her brain, and she takes out her phone and chooses the absolute worst person from her contact list.

"Hello?" his voice is thick with sleep, but Natasha doesn't care.

"Clinton Francis Barton," she slurs. "This is Natasha. I'm calling you."

"So I can tell," he says, sounding a little more awake. "What's the occasion?"

Natasha giggles and leans back against the building. "Well, I'm drunk and my foot is better and I wanted to hear your voice."

"Did you?" she can hear the smile in his voice and she hates him for it a little.

"I didn't want to text," she says, pressing her back to the building so she can feel the beat of the bass in her spine. "I don't like seeing you in that video."

"What?" he sounds half annoyed and half confused, and Natasha is all the way too drunk to care.

"Do you-- do you know that I'm 20?" she says.

"Does that matter?" he asks, sounding tired again. 

"You're not 20," she says. "You're 30. And that's too old for me."

Clint laughs, and she wants to be wrapped in that sound for a long, long time. "What if I told you that I'm not 30?" he says. "Wikipedia is wrong. Someone lied a long time ago, to get on a team with his brother, and it's never been corrected."

"Was it you?" Natasha whispers.

"It was," he breathes back. "What if I told you I'm 28?"

Natasha thinks about that for a moment. It's not quite what she was hoping he would say, but she decides it might be worth taking the chance. 

"Did Bobbi know your real age?" she asks. "Is it your big secret?"

"It always comes back to Bobbi, huh?" he says, his voice going back to tired very suddenly.

"That's where it started, baby," she says. "I'm like an emotional boomerang."

The door of the warehouse opens, and a group of people stumble out. Natasha is feeling more sober now, the combination of night air and Clint bringing her some amount of clarity, but the blast of noise and light and people in neon suddenly remind her of the fact she should be enjoying herself and celebrating.

"Where are you?" Clint asks.

"Party," Natasha tells him. "In Bushwick."

"Are you with people?" he asks, sounding more like a parent than someone she wants to make out with.

"Yes," she says, feeling her petulance acutely. "Of course. I'm drunk, not stupid. I'm with Yelena. She's the one who slept with your receptionist or something."

Clint snorts. "Don't let Kate hear you call her a receptionist, she'll kick your ass."

"I could take her," Natasha says. "Tell her to come get me."

The door opens again, this time dislodging people Natasha knows -- Steve and James and Yelena and the others, laughing and talking and being loud.

"Nat!" Steve calls, waving at her. "Natasha!"

Natasha waves back. "One sec!" she calls, pointing to her phone.

"C'mon!" James is laughing, and he's heading towards her. "C'mon, we're getting waffles."

"We're getting waffles," Natasha says to Clint. "I have to go."

"Okay," he says, his tone somehow tight and uncomfortable. "Text me when you get home, let me know you're safe."

James is pulling on her free hand now, trying to bring her back to the group and jeez, he's like a puppy.

"Good night," Natasha says, carefully not making any promises.

* * *

_**Drunk Clint**  
Hope you're not hurting too bad_

* * *

Natasha wakes with a dry mouth, sleep-drool sticking her face to the pillow and a headache that could kill a man. Her phone is chirping at her, making the special "hey-Clint-texted-you" noise she gave it about a week ago, as she rode home on a late train and tried to decide if she had ever made a good decision in her life.

She flips it open and groans loudly.

"You okay?"

The only thing that stops Natasha from jumping about a mile in the air at that question is that she recognizes the voice that asks it. She rolls over to take in the messy mop of blonde hair and blue eyes next to her.

"Why are you in my bed, Steve?" Natasha asks, rubbing an eye.

"Because Bucky and Dum Dum and Morita are sharing mine," he says, yawning and sitting up. "Be cool, all we did was sleep."

Natasha glances at the phone-- it's a little before noon, which is both wonderful and terrible. Until she opens her recent calls. Then it's all terrible, because she talked to Clint last night on the phone and has no memory of it at all.

"Shit," she says, collapsing against the pillows. "Steve, I made a bad decision."

Her roommate laughs. "About Clint?"

Natasha lifts her arm enough to peer at her roommate with what she hopes is disdain. "How do you know about Clint?"

Steve rolls out of bed and yes, thank god, he does have pants on. "You would not shut the fuck up about him last night. It was all 'oh, Clint's an Olympian' and 'oooh, Clint's secretly 28' and 'I just like him a lot, okay?'"

Natasha groans and Steve laughs. "Coffee?" he asks, and she waves dismissively at him. 

"No, just-- just fucking kill me, please."

* * *

It's shame that stops her from replying to Clint that day, but it's pride that finds her dialing his number Sunday afternoon.

"Oh," he says, by way of greeting. "So you are alive."

"It was a close call," Natasha says, trying to keep her tone light. "You busy?"

"No," he says. "Just paperwork. What's up?"

Natasha smiles and glances out the window of her apartment at the early-afternoon sun that falls in patterns under the trees. "Are you at the range?"

"Yeah," he says. "Why?"

"Want some company?"

* * *

The range is officially closed, but Clint meets her in the lobby area and looks like a 13-year-old boy at a dance, the way he's afraid to touch her. His hands are shoved into his pockets, as though he doesn't trust what he would do with them if he let them free.

"Hi," he says, looking shy in a way that she doesn't quite understand.

"Hi," she says, stepping through the door to meet him. It's an awkward moment -- do they kiss, should she hug him, it's all got Natasha a little at loose ends. She takes off her coat and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall, just to have something to do 

Clint takes a breath. "Water?" he says, offering her a bottle from the cooler behind the desk.

She nods and accepts it. "Can we talk?" she asks, hoping that talking will actually be an answer this time, instead of something that sends her running.

"Yeah," he says. "My office is in the back."

She'd never considered him having an office. She just kind of assumed he hung out in the range all day. But she follows him through the shooting area, to a small, windowless room with a desk and a few chairs and a lot of pictures of kids and teams and other detritus of his life.

The vibe is strange, as he takes his chair behind the desk. He doesn't seem in any hurry to talk. But the words are bubbling up inside of Natasha, wanting to explode out.

"I--" she finally says, staring at the papers on his wooden desk like it's a wall he's built between them. "Clint. I don’t remember what we talked about the other night."

He's quiet, and she finally looks up to find him smiling at her. She wants to keep that smile in her front pocket for the rest of her life, something to take out and look at when she needs to feel warm.

"When you called? It wasn't much," he says. "But you were with some boys, so--"

"My roommate," Natasha cuts him off. "Steve. And some of his friends. Not, like, _boys_."

"I got a little jealous," he tells her, scratching the back of his head with one hand in a kind of aw-shucks posture that is inexplicably hot.

"Why?" Natasha asks, watching his face.

Clint stands up and moves himself to the side of the desk she's on, sitting in a visitor chair so they're nearly knee-to-knee. "Cause," he says, holding her gaze.

"Why were you jealous?" she asks again, because that's not an answer.

"I thought about it. About what you said, on the train platform. And about your eyes, and your voice, and the way you blushed when I introduced myself. And-- I don't-- look," he takes a deep breath. "There's a lot of weird shit here. How we met. My ex wife. Our ages. A murder. Sure. But-- but do you want to give this a try?"

Natasha watches his face for a moment, trying to figure out where he stands, what he really wants from her. He has to want something. Everyone wants something. "That depends," she says, when she decides that she's not going to be able to read his mind. "On what this is?"

Clint leans forward and brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear like this is a romantic comedy and Natasha can't take it. His hands, his rough, obnoxious hands. It's like a shock through her system, the electricity of her desire when he touches her. She leans in, kissing him softly square on his stupid mouth, hoping that maybe she'll finally get some truth out of it.

"I like you," he says, when she pulls back and meets his gaze again. He's a little breathless, a little flushed and a little flustered and she wants to climb into his lap and make out with him so that he always looks like that. "I think you like me, too."

"I like you," Natasha echoes. "You're infuriating and we have a lot to talk about but--" she shakes her head, leans in and kisses him again. 

Clint runs his fingers through her hair this time, and she thinks it might be the best way anyone has ever touched her. For all the ways she's been lifted and carried, corrected and taught, the simple caress of his hand in her hair makes her feel like she could fall apart right here.

And it feels like this might actually be a place where she could fall apart. A place where someone might actually try to put her back together again, the right way.

"But?" he asks.

"But I don't care," Natasha says. "I just-- don't care."

Clint takes her hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it. It's small and it's intimate, but Natasha thinks of all the time she's spent in studios and on stage, all the hours she's logged and pain she's endured and work she's done all in the name of chasing perfection. And all this time it's been right here, in this archery range, in the too-big, work-rough hands of a man who found her completely by accident. A man who fell, and kept falling, and managed to bring her down and help her land, safely, right here.

She takes a deep breath and decides that she wants to keep falling, too.

Clint makes a soft noise of surprise when she moves into his lap, straddling his knees to kiss him hard, but she doesn't stop. His hands - his gorgeous, warm hands - land on her hips and he hauls her closer. She can feel the want radiating out of him, the way he moves and moans into her mouth.

It's a strange thing to be kissing someone. She hasn't spent a lot of time doing it; she's never really had the time. There had been a few abortive fumbles with male dancers, and one night of regret with a boy in her high school, but Natasha hasn't been kissed - hasn't kissed - like this before. Clint kisses with intent. He kisses like he means it.

God, she hopes he means it.

She comes up for air, gasping at the intensity of him, and he moves his mouth to her neck, leaving gentle kisses along her collar bone and nipping gently at her pulse point.

"How far do you want this to go?" he asks, his voice dark with desire.

"I don't know," she says, getting her fingers into his hair and tugging slightly so he looks up at her, so she can look at his eyes. She does know. She knows what she wants, and it's everything. But she can't quite bring herself to say it. "I'll tell you when to stop."

Clint nods and kisses her again, his left hand moving from her waist to her breast, which he palms roughly through the material of her shirt. There is way too much material in her shirt, and it’s keeping their skin from touching, so she reaches down to grab the hem and pull it over her head.

"Fuck," Clint breathes, taking in the sight of her skin, her pale pink bra with the little bow between the cups.

Natasha smiles and reaches back to unclasp it. "Yeah," she says. "Fuck. That's how far I want to go."

His laughter is sweet, but everything about him is sweet. Especially his mouth, which he is now using to kiss along her chest. His hands press against her spine and the pads of his fingers are so rough that it sends a chill through her. It feels perfect.

Nat reaches down to pull his shirt off, but he ducks his head quickly and draws a circle around her nipple with his tongue before he closes his mouth over it and sucks gently. "Fuck," she sighs, getting a grip on his hair again. "Fuck, Clint."

He moves his hands under her and stands, spurred on by her words. She's a little surprised when he lifts her with him, but he sets her on the edge of his desk and steps back, his gaze on her skin like she's the only thing he's ever seen. She shivers and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up.

"Get more naked," she says, and he does, gripping the back of the neck of his shirt to pull it off. Which is unbelievably hot. He has a tattoo on his chest, a simple purple chevron over his heart and she reaches out to trace it, first with her fingers and then, gently, she leans in and traces it with her tongue.

Clint shivers, a full-body motion that Natasha feels proud to have evoked. "Does it mean anything?" she asks, hooking her fingers into his belt loops and pulling him between her legs.

"No," he says, touching her face softly. "Kate dared me. She has one, too."

Natasha makes a soft humming noise. She doesn't know what to say to that, what she's allowed to say about his relationship with Kate, but Clint doesn't seem to mind. He kisses her, his rough hands skimming down her sides to land at the top of her leggings.

"This okay?" he asks.

She leans back, raising her hips. "Hell yeah."

He gently eases her leggings down over her ass, taking her panties with them. He sinks to his knees as he does, leaving her naked and perched on the edge of the desk in front of him.

"You're beautiful," he says, looking up at her with those dangerous blue eyes. And then he moves his hand, one of his strong, thick fingers brushing over the patch of hair at the apex of her thighs and skimming over her clit.

Natasha tosses her head back, her breath caught in her throat. She suddenly understands what he's about to do, and she doesn't move as he hooks one of her legs over his shoulder and leans close, his tongue slipping out to tease her.

It's a lot, okay? It's a lot to go from texting strangers to going down on someone in six weeks, and his gentleness is overwhelming. His hands are so big, they're as gnarled as her feet, but he uses them to wield a weapon. And here they are, on her body, his fingers and his mouth and his concentration all focused on her, and he's being kind.

That's what pushes her over into release-- it's not that he isn't making her feel good, he very much is. But the idea that this person is doing something as selfless as giving head, and doing it for her is too much. She comes, gasping and reaching for him, knocking papers and something that clatters to the floor.

Clint moves again, his hands still on her body but now he's kissing her mouth and she's laying fully on the desk under him and she's not sure when he lost his pants, but the heat of his cock against her leg tells her that he's as naked as she is.

Natasha takes a deep breath, trying to gather herself, and looks into his eyes.

"Okay?" he asks, and she nods.

He smiles at her, resting one palm against her cheek and gently tracing her cheekbone with his thumb and god, they're big hands. She can't get enough of his fucking hands. She feels like she's dwarfed by them, so she turns her face to kiss his palm, to place a little bit of love on the part of him that does his hard work.

Clint takes her kiss as a sign-- which it is-- and he moves slightly, lining himself up with her. Natasha hikes her knee up over his lower back, giving him a better angle, and meets his blue, blue eyes as he slides into her. She sighs at the friction, at how good he feels inside of her. She lets him take his time, setting up a slow, sweet tempo as he moves, kissing her gently and, yes, okay, this is what they call "making love"-- she gets it. She totally understands why they call it that, because Clint makes Natasha feel safe and cared for and loved through the ways he touches her and the way he moves and it's just so good that she finds herself clinging to him, choking back tears.

"Clint," she breathes, feeling him speed up. "Clint, yes."

He doesn't reply, just kisses her as he loses his rhythm and lets himself go.

"Clint," she whispers again, combing her fingers through his now damp hair. His name feels good in her mouth, she likes the way it feels on her tongue. "Oh, Clint."

He presses his forehead into her shoulder, laughing as he rests there. "Nat," he says back, and she still loves the way he says it, the way the syllable falls from his lips. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, kissing the top of his head. "I really am. You?"

Clint moves, finally, pulling her to his chest as he rolls onto his back. "You have no idea," he says, grinning like a loon when she looks up at him.

Natasha takes a moment, takes stock. There's no pain in her foot, she's in the arms of a gorgeous man who seems to have so many feelings that they spill out of him and into her, and she's happy. For the first time in a long time, she hasn't thought about her parents, or dancing, or injury, for a good twenty minutes, and that's the gift he gives her.

She's never felt more herself, more centered and whole, as she does in this moment. And it's perfect.


End file.
